


Therapy

by Tah the Trickster (orphan_account)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Talon Widowmaker | Amélie Lacroix, Therapy, switching POVs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-16 14:08:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9275300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Tah%20the%20Trickster
Summary: At the final takedown of Talon, the organization's best agents were taken into custody, including one Amélie "Widowmaker" Lacroix. At the behest of an unknown party, she's been placed on high-security lockdown for the duration of her stay, in which she's expected to undergo intense therapy in order to perhaps restore some of her memories of the initial reprogramming—or perhaps to give up buried secrets of her former life. It hasn't exactly been made clear to her. What has been made clear is that she's going to be spending more time than she ever cared to with Overwatch's top medical professional, and that neither one of them is appropriately prepared for it.





	1. Chapter 1

The first session with her was nearly insulting.

Mercy had requested a physical exam before we'd gotten started with the more regular sessions, so on Monday at 3:45, an armed guard escorted me from the holding cell to her office. It was sparsely decorated, I noticed: a large desk but no family photos; bookshelves filled to the brim with medical and technical texts without knick-knacks; a potted plant wilting slightly in the sill of the single window; and the stereotypical couch across from her desk.

She smiled politely as I entered her office. I sneered and dropped onto the couch to glare at my escorts by the door.

"Thank you," Mercy spoke civilly to the two lugs, "but please wait outside for the duration of this visit."

The nearest man's brows creased. "Commander Morrison said—"

"Commander Morrison fails to understand the concept of patient confidentiality," Mercy interrupted, still cordial, but now with a warning edge to her voice despite her smile. "Outside, now. Please."

The pair exchanged an uncomfortable look, her cold blue eyes still boring into them, and stepped outside. Mercy closed the door behind them, retrieved a blood pressure cuff and holo-vid display from her desk, and crossed the room to take a seat at my side. She arranged the display to linger a scarce foot away so it was out of her way yet still within reach.

"Arm out, please," Mercy requested. I rolled my eyes, but did as she said. Whatever made this go by faster. She wrapped the velcro cuff about my forearm and slid her stethoscope underneath the edge. "Hold still." I knew, somehow, that she was inflating the cuff against my arm, but I could scarcely feel the pressure against my skin—and I remained uncertain of how I knew what she was doing.

She made a little noise, a small frown touching her lips, and she pressed the earpiece tighter into her ear. I took the moment to watch her without comment.

I'd seen the medic before, of course, though never this... close. At least, not genuinely. I'd seen her even closer than this through the scope of Widow's Kiss. I'd seen her close enough to watch her pulse hammering at her throat; to watch her pale blue eyes widen as my warning shot ripped right past herr; to watch sweat bead at her temple as she darted here and there through the thick of battle... Yes, I'd spent many a job tracking her through my scope, lining up shots to take her out of the mission. After all, nothing made an Overwatch crew panic faster than an injured medic, and particularly not one so prevalent as her.

Yet here she was now, right in front of me, looking much smaller and softer than she'd ever looked out there.

Mercy, evidently not noticing my intense gaze, frowned slightly more deeply, but released the pressure on the cuff with a soft  _ hiss _ of air. She turned, typing the data onto her screen with one hand, and undid the cuff from my arm.

"Sit up straight," she said distractedly, picking up the end of the stethoscope once more. I did as she asked, my gaze tracking across the room to her sad-looking houseplant.

" _ Hé! _ " I jolted sharply when her hands slid under the loose-fitting shirt they'd given me to wear, and I had her wrists locked instantly in an iron grip. Mercy didn't flinch, merely raising a brow at the reaction. "What  _ are _ you doing?" I demanded.

"Checking your heartrate," she replied in the most deadpan voice I'd ever heard. "Or rather, I would be, if you'd let me go." My eyes narrowed a fraction, but I slowly released her. She fixed the cuffs of her sleeves. "You act as though you've never had a physical exam before."

"I  _ haven't, _ " I returned icily.

Something approaching pity flitted over her expression. I hated it. But then it was gone, and she was putting the stethoscope earpieces back into her ears. "You may not recall it now," she said, "but you have. I'm the one who gave it to you."

I didn't say anything, turning again to glare at the stupid plant.

Her hands were soft against my bare skin, one sliding up the ridges of my spine to rest between my shoulder blades and the other pressing the drum of the stethoscope to my chest. She murmured an absentminded apology about the icy temperature of the instrument. I hadn't noticed it. I  _ did _ notice the blazing heat of her fingertips, though. As low as my temperature was, the sensation of normal body heat against my skin always felt uncomfortable—but Mercy's skin was borderline painful. I kept my face neutral, however. I didn't want to give her the satisfaction of my discomfort.

Mercy listened for a long moment, a slight crease forming at her brow. She finally gave a wordless  _ hmm _ and removed her hands to enter the data into the holo-vid again. The stethoscope changed hands and she listened to my lungs in similar fashion, her palm blistering against my sternum as she pressed the drum to my back. At length she seemed satisfied, and she stood, taking the display in hand once more, and crossed back to her desk.

I allowed my gaze to return to her from the windowsill, watching as she swept her skirt and coat under herself and took a seat. Her legs crossed lightly at the ankle—kitten heels, I noted with some amusement; I'd expected flats—and I leaned against the back of the couch, feeling somewhat satisfied that she was as wary of all this as I was.

"Well," Mercy spoke up, sliding a pair of narrow black-framed glasses onto her face, "it seems you were telling the truth about your... physiological changes—"

"What use would I have had in lying about them?" I spat, irate that it was even a question.

She didn't even do me the honor of looking up as she tapped in something on her screen. "What use would you have had in being honest?" I grit my teeth. I should've put a round through her skull when I had the chance. Mercy took my silence as acquiescence and continued on. "I suppose it would be useless to ask about your family medical history—"

I gave her a razor-thin smile. "What gives you that idea, Mercy?"

"Angela," she corrected mildly, sparing me a quick glance. "Or Doctor Ziegler. This is a professional setting, Amélie."

I met her gaze dead-on. "Mercy."

She rolled her eyes and returned to her screen, pressing her glasses up her nose again. "Be that way if you must. Moving on. Do you smoke at all?"

"No." Not that I hadn't tried before, in an effort to lure out any feeling at all. Turns out smoking with a slowed pulse was a bad idea.

"Alcohol consumption?"

I gave her the same response, for mostly the same reason—not a great idea with heart problems.

"I presume your exercise habits are frequent enough," she said, voice suddenly colder than expected, "given your tendency to flee from rooftop to rooftop."

I smirked. "Fair."

Mercy pursed her lips and returned to the file she was building. "Are you sexually active?"

That wiped the smirk off my face in an instant. I sat up sharply. "This seems rather  _ personal. _ "

"Rest assured, it is entirely professional," Mercy returned flatly, glancing at me from the corner of her eye. "I ask these same questions of everyone to whom I give an examination. If you do not wish to answer, that is up to your discretion, but I would advise against it."

I told her precisely where she could store that question. She didn't even give me the satisfaction of flinching at the language. Rather, Mercy simply gave me a deadpan look and placed her holo-vid screen onto the desk, followed shortly by her reading glasses.

"Very well, Amélie," she said calmly. "I can see this appointment has reached its end earlier than anticipated. We will continue this at a later juncture."

My expression dropped. "You want to do this  _ again? _ " I echoed, unable to comprehend it. I gave a soft, amused exhale and folded my arms over my chest. "You must  _ really _ like me," I half-purred, offering her a little smirk.

"Hardly." Her expression didn't change as she strode to the door, gesturing for me to join her there. "But I  _ do _ want to help you, Amélie. Even if you accept it kicking and screaming."

I frowned and stood, crossing over to her in scarcely three strides. She met my gaze unwaveringly, despite the inches I had on her. "Why would you help me?" I asked her softly, ice seeping into my words. "Or are you simply putting on a brave front?" My smile was cruel. "Your commander would prefer me dead. I believe his words were, ah... 'far beyond saving.'"

Mercy's glare was steely. " _ No one _ is beyond saving," she said, and it sounded like she believed it. Our eyes broke contact as she reached for the door's handle. "I'll have the guards alert you to your next appointment, Amélie. We will discuss this in depth later."

My armed escorts had already taken me back to the bare holding cell before I realized I hadn't asked why she'd called me by that name.


	2. Chapter 2

As soon as she'd left my office, I crossed back to my desk to flop into my chair. I massaged wearily at the bridge of my nose where my reading glasses had left shallow dents. I picked up my stylus and began halfheartedly arranging her information on the screen. God, that had been draining.

Oh, I'd known it would be, certainly. I'd provided plenty of therapy services for friends and colleagues before, and it was always tiring to carry the burdens of others. But in this case... _Does Amélie even remember me?_ I wondered, noticing that I was unconsciously biting the end of the stylus. I shook my head and put it back in its cup. _Doubtful._ She'd responded to her old name, but it hadn't really seemed to register fully. She hadn't seemed to even recognize mine. A small frown tugged at the corner of my lip. _She wouldn't even call me Angela._

Well, I supposed it was too early for me to be hoping for miracles, anyway. And I was nothing if not persistent.

I rapped a knuckle against the screen, resting my chin in the other hand. A small microphone icon appeared in the corner of the screen: recording.

"Doctor Angela Ziegler," I spoke aloud halfheartedly, "making a note on February..." I hesitated and glanced down at my calendar. "Fourth," I said finally. "Regarding my latest patient, Amélie Lacroix, callsign Widowmaker." Just the name made me roll my eyes. I pressed on. "Patient is currently under the care of Overwatch to undergo intensive therapy for neural reprogramming, physiological damage, and possible mental trauma." I thought about that for a moment and corrected myself: " _Probable_ mental trauma."

For all that she'd done—to me personally, even—I couldn't drum up any emotion for her other than, perhaps, pity. She hadn't asked for this. Any of this. _All she'd done was being married to the wrong person._ I winced as the thought struck me; it sounded cruel even now. No, he'd been the right person for her, I supposed. It was just the timing that'd been poor.

The recording had continued running during my brief reverie. I supposed I'd have to trim that out later.

"Patient appears to suffer from an advanced case of bradycardia," I finally spoke up again. "Pulse measured at forty-three beats per minute, with hypotension resulting. Blood pressure measured at eighty-seven over fifty-four. I will be questioning her on her possible symptoms of the two disorders and how she'd like to proceed. Despite this, she currently seems in otherwise perfect health but for the skin discoloration. Coloring unusually even throughout visible skin."

I had no idea for the moment what that might indicate. I leaned back against my chair. "I will be requesting a blood sample to test for biotic elements that may be keeping her stabilized, and may also contribute to her current mental state." And what a state that was, too. "Patient is additionally displaying heightened aggression, but little other emotion if any at all. Early diagnosis..." I considered for a moment. "Major depression." It fit well enough of what I knew of her from just the initial appointment, and it would make sense given her past.

My eyes were unfocused for a moment as I contemplated, and I finally blinked a time or two to bring myself back. I noticed finally that my houseplant had begun to wilt in the sunlight. _Damn. Better remember to water that before that one dies, too._ The irony was not lost on me.

I cleared my throat and sat back up again, rearranging the screen before me once more. "...She has already made it quite clear that she has little desire to engage with me, as she clearly does not trust me." Not that I trusted her either, but that didn't need to be on my records. _Though that goes without saying._ I felt a phantom pain somewhere behind my shoulder, a shot to a wing that wasn't there. I shuddered and continued. "Regardless... I intend to gain her trust, and for her to let me help her." The alternative was too ugly to bear.

It'd taken nearly a month of contesting against Jack to let me even make the attempt. She was a killer, he'd told me over and over; one with a kill list a mile long, with 99.9% accuracy. She was a risk, a hazard, and he wouldn't have her wasting Overwatch funds just to keep her alive on the off chance she could be redeemed when the entire globe was calling for her death as justice.

I'd offered a significant pay cut to take her on instead. It was enough to get his attention. As the top biotechnical medical professional on the planet, there were plenty of other organizations vying for my attention, and so Overwatch had had to raise my pay grade to keep me on board. If I was willing to continue working for them at a steep cut...

Well, it was enough. Barely. He'd given me a year to do with her what I saw fit, and then he would call judgement at the close of the year on his own. If I could fix her, turn her back into what she'd been so long ago, then we'd "talk," he said. But if I could do nothing for her, she would be turned over to the UN, and they would judge her themselves.

I'd lived through Amélie's death once before. I wasn't keen to do it a second time. Not when I could help.

I noticed a single wet drop on my desk calendar. I brushed it tersely away, ignoring the way it smeared the graphite of my pencil over my marked appointment for today. No, there was no use in lingering on what had been or what might be. I had to concern myself for now with the present.

"I have lost enough to this war," I determined aloud, the microphone icon blinking silently as it continued rolling. "I _will_ save Amélie Lacroix. End note."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> side note: im not in any way a medical professional or even a medical amateur so take this all with a grain of salt


	3. Chapter 3

I was escorted back to Mercy's office again next Monday, once again at 3:45.

"This is to be a weekly event, then?" I asked her as she dismissed the two guards—male and female this time—to the other side of the door.

"I haven't decided yet," she said, returning to her desk chair. She dug her heels into the thick carpeting, dragging the chair from behind the desk to face me on the couch. "Is this arrangement fine with you, or would you prefer something else?"

I raised a brow. "I would prefer not to be here at all, Mercy."

She looked bored. "Your options are either these sessions or a strong possibility of the death penalty, Amélie." I opened my mouth. "If you say what I think you're about to, this appointment will last an extra hour to discuss it." My mouth closed. Mercy smiled pleasantly. "Now, then. How are you feeling today?"

"I'm not." Seemed like she would've gotten that by now. I frowned as she reached for her holo-vid, typing something in with one hand. "What are you doing?" It wasn't as though I'd said anything of note.

"Taking notes," Mercy replied, as though that made sense. She reached out to grab her reading glasses once more. "I'll be tracking your moods for the duration of our sessions."

I braced my elbow on the arm of the couch, resting my chin in my palm. "Seems futile," I said. I nodded at her houseplant. "My moods are much like your plant. Dead."

Her ears went pink, and I knew I'd struck a nerve. "It's not dead," she corrected with more ire than the jibe really necessitated. "I just haven't watered it today."

"Nor last week." It'd been dry and wilted then, too.

The irate flush spread to her cheeks. Good, now we were both annoyed. She shot me a piercing look over the top rims of her glasses. "This session is about you, Amélie, not my houseplant."

I smirked, feeling a light pang of satisfaction at getting under her skin so easily. "So proceed,  _ mon chou. _ " She typed something in. I amused myself by considering that she'd written the pet name down to look up and be insulted by later.

Her glare lingered for a moment longer, and after a moment she relented and pushed her glasses back up her nose and turned to flip through some documents on her device. "...In your haste to end our last session," she started over, feigning calm once more, "I neglected to inquire into some of your symptoms."

I lifted a brow. "Symptoms? Am I sick now, Doctor?" It was news to me. I felt perfectly average.

"A heart rate as low as yours isn't healthy," she pointed out. I merely cocked my head. I'd known that much logically, but it hadn't ever seemed to plague me. Mercy took a quick sip from her coffee mug and picked up a stylus. "Have you had any fainting or dizziness spells? Perhaps general weakness or fatigue?"

The questions made me pause. I wasn't expecting to hear anything listed that actually applied to me, but it was well-established among Talon agents to let me alone following missions as I'd be nearly too exhausted and lightheaded to even stand, let alone converse. That that unspoken rule had evidently made itself public irked me.

"And which charming individual let that slip?" I asked, folding my arms over my chest. I needed a name for my list.

"None," Mercy replied over the rim of her mug, tapping something into her screen with the stylus. "These are typical symptoms of bradycardia—slowed heart rate," she added, seeing my raised brows. "This would further explain your advanced cyanosis—the skin discoloration—and would contribute to memory issues in addition."

"Ah," I said, pretending to tap my lips thoughtfully with a single finger, "and here I was under the impression that Talon's meddling was what contributed to my memory issues."

She had the decency to blush at the oversight, a soft pink tinting porcelain cheeks and ears, and Mercy cleared her throat softly. " _ Exacerbate _ , then," she murmured, making a quick correction on her screen.

There was some satisfaction in throwing her off like that.

"Additionally," she'd already recovered, evidently, "Talon's 'meddling,' as you phrased it, may have left you with unchecked mental health issues—most likely major depressive disorder, but possibly including post-traumatic stress disorder as a result of—"

"You seem quite eager to diagnose me with disorders," I interrupted, drumming my fingers impatiently on the arm of the couch. "I assure you my mental faculties are perfectly functional."

Mercy actually had the nerve to  _ roll her eyes _ at me. She swiped a finger across her screen and cleared her throat. "Lack of emotion, increased aggression and hostilities, extreme pessimistic views, insomnia, anhedonia, digestive problems, self-destructive tendencies, would you like me to go on?" My head was, admittedly, feeling a touch dizzy from the rapid-fire list she'd gone down. I swallowed hard and schooled my expression back into a subtle scowl.

"Your ability to read a list from the DSM is beyond compare, Doctor," I said flatly.

Mercy simply placed her mug back on her desk and turned it so the design faced me. It read, in large black lettering, "DO NOT CONFUSE YOUR ONLINE SEARCH FOR MY MEDICAL DEGREE." I might've laughed had I not been on this side of the joke.

"Rest assured," she pronounced meticulously, "I have studied over your case file in depth. All conclusions drawn from our appointments are my own. That is simply what I have determined from our interactions thus far."

"Fine. What do you intend to do with this information?" I demanded.

Mercy cocked her head, glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose, looking infuriatingly curiously at me. Like I was a puzzle to be solved. Like I was something broken to be repaired.  _ I am neither. _ "I intend to treat you," she said, a genuinely inquisitive thread woven through her heavily accented words. "By your permission."

That got my attention. I looked at her sharply. "My permission."

A light smile tried to twitch at the corners of her mouth, but she evidently stamped down the urge. "Of course. To do so otherwise would be unethical."

I looked at her for a long moment, debating on how best to fire back.  _ Ah... of course. _ "In much the same way as you treated the Shimada boy with  _ his _ permission, I presume?"

A gasp. She flinched as if struck, and I delighted in the way the color drained from her face, all hints of a smile vanished in an instant.  _ Une balle, un mort. _ And I'd struck her to the quick, too: her hands shook in agony even as her expression went purely neutral in defense.

"There were extenuating circumstances in that case," Mercy whispered. The quiver in her voice gave her away: I shouldn't have known about that.  _ But Talon has your case files too, mon chou. _

I chuckled darkly, standing up to my full height. Mercy simply watched me as I strode to her desk, her eyes wide. A thin smile touched my lips as I towered over her. She trembled like a cornered fawn. Oh, it would be  _ so _ easy to do away with her now, with the two of us alone like this. I'd just have to reach out and  _ crush  _ her pretty little neck in one hand—watch those pale blue eyes slide shut at last, pink lips parting to gasp for air, expression twisting in something approaching rapture... oh, it would be a  _ beautiful _ death.

But... it was perhaps not yet the time.

I reached out, plucking the stylus from her hand, and Mercy shuddered at the skin contact, as though she'd known how close she'd come to death. Rather, I simply closed my file on her holo-vid and placed the stylus in its cup on her desk. And I smiled at her: all teeth and no charm, the sort of smile a cat might give a songbird before sinking its fangs into delicate wings. A predator's smile.

"Extenuating or not," I purred, leaning over her, "you will not be doing to me what you did to him." I could see the deep guilt darkening her gaze, settling into the stress lines of her face. "But I will continue to humor your foolhardy strivings to  _ fix _ me." I straightened up again and began towards the door. "Only, however, because I find them amusing.  _ Comprenez-vous? _ "

Mercy didn't move, simply watching me with an inscrutable expression.

I chuckled once more, rapping twice on the office door to signal the appointment's conclusion to my escorts. "Next Monday, then.  _ Adieu, Docteur. _ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tfw youre a heartless killer but also like youre super gay about it


End file.
